


we were so gallant, so unafraid

by tousled



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dragon rescuing, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Serious Injuries, dragon eye - Freeform, rtte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 10:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tousled/pseuds/tousled
Summary: The plan was simple.Was.Get in, under the cover of a distraction, swipe the lens from Viggo’s chambers and get out anyway they can. Easy. Except -Except, Viggo wasn’t on board at all and a full crew of dragon hunters at the ready, dragon root arrows and net canons.It is very, very easy for a plan to go sideways, Astrid discovers.





	we were so gallant, so unafraid

**Author's Note:**

> For [HTTYD Rare Pair Week 2019](https://httydrarepair.tumblr.com/post/187090694116/httyd-rare-pair-week-2019-is-from-26th-october-to) day 2: squirm // quiet, they can hear us 
> 
> Oh this fic was written in 1.5 days................... please excuse any errors. I have done a per functionary glance but I might have missed something - let me know precisely and I will change it. :) 
> 
> Trigger warnings for serious injury, mention of blood and wounds, shoddy medical advice and probably mistreatment of a serious injury. Also implied mistreatment of dragons. A more ... "serious" fic and hence why I rated it mature. There are no sex scenes or anything sexual in this fic. 
> 
> Title Nothing's Wrong by Haim and I have ALWAYS wanted to title something "we were so gallant" so I'm PUMPED but I listened Euphoria by Loren whilst writing. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think/start a discussion! I'd love to chat about this fic a lot :)

The plan was simple.  _ Was. _

Get in, steal the lens, get out. Hiccup had sat, Maces and Talons board out in front of him, moving the pieces like it was a war room discussion. If Stoick could have seen him, he would have been proud. The way he’d slammed the piece representing Viggo down onto the board unsettling Astrid. Fishlegs had looked across the room at Astrid, sharing a worried look. 

Get in, under the cover of a distraction, swipe the lens from Viggo’s chambers and get out anyway they can. Easy. Except - 

Except, Viggo wasn’t on board at all and a full crew of dragon hunters at the ready, dragon root arrows and net canons. Astrid took one look at the ship once the first bola was thrown, and called a tactical retreat but Hiccup had gone in headfirst, demanding that the lens would still be on board and expecting them all to follow. Now, after taking an arrow to the shoulder for Stormfly and being knocked off, she’s clinging desperately to the side of the dragon hunter ship, praying to any god that will listen that no one onboard will spot her. 

Her arm is going numb, and her grip is loose at best and there’s no way Stormfly can find her without being attacked further. She could drop off into the ocean, but with the amount of blood she’s already lost to the waves it’s likely she’s got a shoal of predators following along. At this height the drop will probably knock her unconscious and there’s no guarantee with her arm she can get herself far enough away from the ship so she’s not keelhauled. 

“Fuck!” Astrid yells, and then at the sound of someone reloading a canon she tugs herself in tight against the ship because now is  _ not  _ the time to get frustrated with Hiccup. 

“You ‘ear that?” A voice above says, but it’s not the porthole Astrid’s fingers are gripping into so she takes a deep, slow breath of relief. 

“Hear what?” There’s the sound of a slap, a different voice laughing, “the sound of our astounding victory over those stupid dragon rider’s? Imagine falling for our trap like that!” 

“I thought I ‘eared something.” The first voice says, another resounding slap. 

“You’re always hearing stuff Halfdan, things you shouldn’t.” 

The voices move further away, still arguing and Astrid loosens her muscles a little. There’s nowhere for her feet to purchase against, not a slightly out of place plank and she scrabbles at the side trying to grip in someway to push herself up. Her fingers ache, and her arms too and she desperately needs to bandage the arrow wound soon, each time she hits the side of the ship it drives the arrow in a little deeper. Pulling herself up with just her arms Astrid stretches the sore one into the porthole, looking for something to grasp and her hand hits the edge of a cannon. There’s nothing on the barrel to grab hold of, but she manages to pull herself up a little and runs her hand over until she reaches a leg. 

She just gets her hand around the leg, enough grip to pull herself up when there’s a hushed “oh, there!” And when Astrid whips her head around she sees someone ducking back into a porthole, too down from her. 

“Oh fuck,” Astrid swears, pulling harder, reaching further in with her other hand and yanking really hard. The cannon rolls a little coming towards her and she squeezes her eyes shut, tugging herself inwards, twisting to the sides. “Oh fuck, fuck,  _ fuck. _ ” 

The cannon hits the end of range, jerking to a stop and Astrid manages to pull herself in, twisted to the side so she’s not quashed by the metal and takes several deep breaths to calm herself for a moment. Her arm is on fire, the arrow stick out right in the way and her fingers feel numb to the point she can’t feeling anything but she knows the wetness isn’t just sea air leaving them clammy. Still, she needs to  _ move _ , someone’s  _ coming.  _

Glancing around the room Astrid takes it all in, but there’s nothing much. A cannon, a few nets and a couple of cannonballs in a chest, a bench and a porthole cover. There’s only one way out that’s not the porthole, and it’s not an option. She pushes herself up, forcing herself to investigate the door, see if it can be locked. It won’t be a long term solution but it will buy her time. 

“Oh for Thor’s sake!” Astrid mutters to herself upon discovering the door is lockable, but only with a key, and probably not from the inside. Her only option is to knock out the person coming as they come in the door, hoping they haven’t alerted anyone else on their way here. She takes her place behind the swing of the door, settling her weight evenly on each foot and picking up a cannonball to use as a bludgeon. She probably has enough strength left to strike one or two blows but if the fight goes on she might be taking on a losing battle. 

It takes several more minutes, Astrid shifting her weight briefly from foot to foot to keep herself awake before the door creaks open three or four inches. Astrid lifts the cannonball, readying herself. 

“Astrid?” A blessedly familiar voice calls, whisper quiet. Every atom in Astrid’s body cries out in relief. The door creaks slightly further open and Astrid lowers the cannonball, taking the stress off her arms and is just about to respond when there’s a distressed cry. “Oh no!” 

“Hey, Tuff,” Astrid says as he rushes into the room, unconcerned, straight for the porthole. Astrid drops the cannonball, unable to hold onto it any longer, just missing her toes and lurches forward. Tuff jumps, twisting around, one bloody hand up to defend himself before he realises who it is, lifting a foot up to stop the rolling cannonball. 

“Oh thank the gods,” Tuff breaths, and then bursts into tears. 

They get the cannonball back into the chest together, Tuff hiccuping sobs to himself until his hands are free and then wraps his arms around Astrid’s waist in a tight hug, careful to put his head away from the arrow embedded in her shoulder. Astrid holds him back, arms tight, worried about the blood, worried about his tears, worried they’ll be found out. Eventually he pulls back, wiping his eyes with the hand that’s mostly clean. 

“Are you hurt?” Astrid asks, looking at his hand, there’s blood but Astrid can’t see any wounds, feeling gently up his arm. 

“That’s  _ your  _ blood.” Tuff says. He points at the porthole, hand shaking. There’s a smear, the bottom and the side covered, and bloody fingerprints inside the room, on the canon. It looks like a fight scene, it looks like a murder. No wonder he’d come rushing in with no care for himself. 

“But you’re okay?” Astrid asks, taking his face in hand. She hasn’t looked at the damage to her hands yet, and she does want to but she smears blood against his cheeks and she’s sorry for it. He lets her pull him close again and kiss his cheekbone. 

“Shut up A,” Tuff sniffs, wiping his face again. He doesn’t step back, looking down at Astrid’s shoulder and has to look away quickly. “We need to get you patched up real quick. It looks really bad.” 

“It looks bad because there’s so much blood.” Astrid says, calm. She can feel the arrow every time she shifts the wrong way, digging in deeper, grinding against bone. But, she doesn’t need Tuff fainting on her because he’s worried about it. “We can’t take the arrow out, the wound will be too big to stop the flow of blood without proper medical care. I need you to cut the arrow close to the skin so it’s no longer an easy object to grab.” 

“I absolutely  _ cannot  _ do that.” Tuff says, pale. Astrid sits him down on the bench. 

But, he  _ does _ , one hand braced against her shoulder after they cleaned up the blood as best as they could. It’s not so fast, oozing around the dragonroot and he tries to focus on exactly where he’s sawing with a toothed knife from Astrid’s boot. It’s not easy, the dragonroot shifts and moves, catching on the teeth of the knife, and Astrid grips her thigh, nails digging in and the leather of one of her arm bands in her mouth to stop any noise. Tuff saws until he can snap the arrow in half, piece in his hand, piece in Astrid’s shoulder. The jolt of the movement causes it to start bleeding again and he drops the dragonroot to start cutting his tunic up into strips to soak up the blood. Astrid spits out her leather bite block. 

“Put pressure on it,” he instructs, despite two weeks ago when he insisted he didn’t know what to do when faced with a gash on Hiccup’s thigh from scaling a too difficult rock face. Fishlegs had taken care of it, poultice from herbs he carried around. Hiccup  _ could  _ of, but his rucksack was full of paper and writing utensils and a bottle of monstrous nightmare slime. Hiccup  _ could _ a lot of things. Tuff  _ won’t  _ but he always pulls through when it’s needed. 

“Thank you,” Astrid says. It immediately feels different, less like each shift of her body’s going to be her last, split open from the shoulder down. If they encounter a dragon hunter now, it’s a lot harder to make the wound worse. “You know, you could study under Gothi if you wanted.” 

“We’re going to have to pad this with cloth and then tie it all together.” Tuff says, ignoring her. He hands over a pile of strips, tucking them into place where Astrid’s keeping the pressure. “I think we should put your arm into a sling.” 

“No sling,” Astrid says, “I might have to move my arm around for whatever reason. Defence is more important than immobilisation right now.” 

Tuff harrumphs, but doesn’t argue. They manage to tie strips of his tunic around Astrid’s shoulder, looping it under her arm. Right now her shoulder plate would be useful, but it was lost in the fight before the arrow even hit her. Astrid lets go, hand hovering but it holds and she carefully moves it, rolling her shoulder but the padding doesn’t come loose. Tuff sighs, stashing the rest of the cut up bits of tunic into his pockets and handing Astrid back her knife. 

“Are you sure you don’t have any injuries?” Astrid asks. The knife is probably ruined, hacking away at the dragonroot, but she folds it up and puts it back in her boot. It’ll still stab someone in a pinch. “I don’t believe you fell off your dragon and didn’t sustain any injuries. My shoulder, my hands, I think all my joints feel like I’m eighty years old and I’m probably an entire bruise. 

“We have to move,” Tuff says instead of relying. He looks up at the door like a dragon hunter might burst through any second. “They were doing rounds and if the others attack again someone will definitely come here to use the cannon.” 

“Tuff, where are you hurt?” Astrid asks again, but he’s already up at the door, opening it a crack and peering out. Astrid gets up, joining him at the door and they watch for close to ten minutes, counting the seconds and seeing no movement. 

“What’s the bet they’re feasting?” Tuff asks, and Astrid wishes she and Tuff were feasting too. Or some fresh water, enough to wet her parched throat. 

“Sure, they took down two dragon riders.” Astrid agrees, “they’re probably celebrating. And Viggo’s not here to tell them to be on guard.” 

They steal down the corridor, to the rear of the ship. There’s a ladder that goes up onto the deck on the starboard side and likely to be enough rations and plunder in the hold there will be somewhere to hide. Maybe even medical supplies. 

Tuff stops to peak in doors every so often, mostly they’re cannon rooms, one sleep chamber that was empty. He opens a door to their right and it’s the galley, but over the merriment and rousing song no one notices the door moving. They scamper off, less careful to not be making noise as they get as far away from that part of the ship as possible. They’re almost to the very end door, hope in their throats when there’s a loud cough and the creak of a side door that needs oiling. They panic, Tuff throwing open another door without considering, and it’s some sort of cupboard, mop and dish rags and buckets. Astrid pushes him in and follows, bringing the door behind her. It doesn’t quite shut, a broom knocked to the side and Astrid prays it’s enough. 

“Why are we stuck on reloading duty?” A dragon hunter whines, there’s the sound of wood scraping on wood, like something’s being dragged. 

“Humpfh.” Another one adds. He doesn’t say anything else, and from the way the first dragon hunter continues on without acknowledgement it might be the only thing he can say. 

“If it’s a victory feast, it’s a victory feast! You can’t just let everyone go ‘cept is!” The dragon hunter says. The knowledge that they were right about the dragon hunters focusing on their victory inconsequential when the voices are  _ coming closer _ . 

Tuff makes a choked off sound, like he’s noticed just as Astrid has and she wants to comfort him, tell him it’s okay but it’s not. Stay still, she thinks, control your breathing, it  _ has  _ to be okay, it has to. She doesn’t know how to convey this message properly. 

“Quiet, they can hear us.” She says, voice only a breath, air stuck in her lungs. She can  _ smell  _ the dragon hunter. Tuff holds her hand, too tight, cutting off circulation, eyes squeezed shut too. Astrid pushes back further, shadow of the dragon hunter falling over the gap in the cupboard doors and she holds her breath. Behind her, Tuff squirms, uncomfortably pressed into 

“I didn’t fall off Belch,” Tuff whispers like the cupboard is a confessional. Like Astrid can give him benediction. “I saw you fall, and I didn’t want you to be here on your own.” 

She doesn’t know what to say. She can’t, she shouldn’t; the dragon hunters are walking past and if she even breathes in their unwashed smell she might gap. If they were completely safe, no one nearby, she still wouldn’t be able to say anything.  _ Why _ , she thinks, you foolish, brave boy, I couldn’t have done it without you. She squeezes his hand in acknowledgement. If she could, she’d turn and press her face to the side of his, to his shoulder. 

“I say we just join in on the feast anyway.” Dragon hunter number one says, voice right outside the door. “What are they going to do? Tell Viggo.” 

“Arumpfh.” The other dragon hunter agrees. They pass the cupboard and continue down the corridor. 

Astrid doesn’t  _ breathe  _ until she can no longer hear the sound of their feet, only relaxes incrementally. Tuff lets out a deep breath, sound whistling out between his teeth and they wait in silence for minutes, half an hour, until they’re absolutely sure no one is anywhere near them. Only then does Astrid push the cupboard door even more ajar, peering out just in case but the corridor is empty. 

“Let’s go,” Astrid says, encouraging Tuff out of his space squished up between a pile of buckets and a mop, head upwards and cloth probably in his face the whole time. 

“I just hurt my ankle a little.” He admits and Astrid nods, curling a hand around his elbow. They step lightly to the end of the corridor, trying not to step on any squeaking floor board. 

“Okay,” she says, “we’ll look at it once we’re hidden. We can make a plan then too.” 

The door to the hold is locked. Astrid tries it with the injured hand, and then with her other and it won’t budge. She shakes it, handle rattling and it doesn’t even more a little. Tuff takes a turn, like he can’t believe their bad luck, like it’ll make a difference if someone else tries. He rattles the handle in a different way, but it still doesn’t move. 

“Fuck!” She slams her hand against the wood, curling over herself to soften the sound. Of course, of course,  _ of course.  _

“I can probably pick it.” Tuff offers, sounding unsure of himself. Astrid uses her good arm to push herself up and look at him. 

“You can pick locks?” And really, she shouldn’t be surprised. She should learn how to, too. “Can you teach me?” 

“Wait until I can prove I can actually do it.” Tuff grins and then unwinds some of his locs to find one with a dragon tooth, probably a zippleback’s baby tooth by the looks of it, and a bead depicting Loki. He pulls a couple of pieces of tapered wire out of his loc and gets Astrid to hold them whilst he twists his hair back out of the way. 

It takes a few minutes, wires inserted into the lock, Tuff’s frown of concentration drawing his eyebrows together. Astrid stands watch, even if there is no where else to go if they’re spotted, even if someone can see them from right down the end of the corridor. At least she can defend him, that she has Tuff’s back like Tuff has her’s. 

Eventually the lock makes a resounding  _ click!  _ And Tuff exclaims “Eureka!” and swings the door open. Astrid bundles them in as quick as possible, shutting the door. 

“Can you lock it again?” Astrid asks, and when she gets no reply she turns, gaze immediately slipping past Tuff’s astounded form to the rows of cages, each one with at least one dragon. “Oh my Freya.” Astrid says. 

“We have to save them.” Tuff replies, words rushing out too fast like it’s the first breath he’s taken since they stepped into the hold. 

“Lock the door, and then let’s stuff the lock with fabric and we can free these dragons.” Astrid suggests, automatically counting the cages. There’s eighteen in total, and probably twenty four dragons and how in the Hel did Hiccup not realise things were bigger than just a stupid dragon eye lens. 

“Okay,” Tuff agrees easily and clicks the lock shut much faster than he opened it. He pulls a piece of his torn up tunic out of his pocket and with Astrid’s help they stuff it right into the lock. 

The first cage they come to has a couple of young gronckles in it, shy and cowed as they come up to the gate. Tuff immediately gets onto picking the lock, Astrid speaking gently towards them, bending down and offering her hand. She wishes she had a piece of sandstone or quartz to offer. The gronckles aren’t muzzled, so it would be the easiest bit of bribery, but most of the other dragons are. This lock is much quicker and it springs open happily in Tuff’s hands. The gronckles dare to come a bit closer but don’t try to get out of the cage whilst they’re standing near the doorway. 

“You want to learn lock picking?” Tuff asks, looking up. Astrid nods. “Well, these are mostly easy, watch carefully.” They move onto the next cage, a grizzled old thunderdrum huddled in one corner that keeps an eye on them as they work. He’s holding his wings funny, they might be damaged and his muzzle looks  _ mean.  _ Astrid watches Tuff’s hands move, popping the lock open. 

“I don’t know about doing that so quick. I don’t even have lock picks.” Astrid says. Tuff looks meaningfully down at Astrid’s boot. She gets the knife out, and Tuff takes it, careful not to display it to the dragons and examines the point.

“You’ll be able to pick with this.” He says. He hands the knife back. “But, someone’s got to get the muzzles off - maybe try and befriend the dragons.” 

“Alright.” Astrid doesn’t know how she’s going to get close to abused dragons with a  _ knife _ but she needs to. She  _ has  _ to get those muzzles off. 

The thunderdrum growls when Astrid approaches it, hands out and in the open, knife obvious but non threatening. She talks to him, complimenting him on his scars, saying how brave he must be and there’s a ripple of movement under his wing and Astrid gets a glimpse of a curious little face. The wing placement suddenly makes sense. 

“Tuff,” Astrid calls, “there’s baby dragons.” 

Tuff doesn’t respond, concentrating on the next cage over but he taps out on the bars he acknowledged it. This makes Astrid’s job a million times harder; a protective older dragon is more likely to snap. She tucks her knife into her waist band and holds both hands out flat. The thunderdrum makes another warning noise, a deep rumbling like actual thunder. 

“I know sweet,” Astrid says, “why on earth would you trust me? These people have hurt you, have hurt all of you. But I promise I will just cut the muzzle off.”

“Done,” Tuff calls, moving down to the next cage. Astrid stamps down a swear word, frustration bubbling. Of  _ course  _ the dragons won’t trust her, but how with such a short time can she get them to? A dragon hunter could burst through the door any minute. Her arm aches, her hands have gained feeling again but it’s only to her detriment and she can feel her energy lagging. They  _ really  _ need to move on. 

A moment later, one of the gronckles comes bumbling into the thunderdrum cage, stopping to sniff at Astrid, looking up at her with big soulful eyes. Astrid holds out a hand and is rewarded with a lick. Gently she turns it and pats the gronckle, stroking the side of the face and then scratching under the jaw. It gets immediate results, like it does every time on Meatlug, a happy wiggly gronckle, fawning for attention. She gives it more pats and then a whine comes from under the thunderdrum’s wing and a baby gronckle comes racing out, unsteady on its little feet. 

It knocks into Astrid’s leg, the tension in the room was suffocating. She can feel the weight of every dragon’s gaze on her, watching to see what she does to the baby. She bends down, squatting to be level and offers her hand. The baby sniffles it happily, unconcerned by whatever kind of threat she might pose and it makes her heart swell. Hopefully all the babies haven’t experience any physical trauma too. It snuffles at her leg, with the kind of gentleness only gronckles have and then when Astrid begins to pat it, it purrs. 

“Done!” Tuff calls, and Astrid looks up, too all the dragons staring at her, at the baby, tension gone. The adult gronckle nudges her. 

“Is this your baby?” She asks, stretching her injured arm to pat the gronckle, the weight of the baby fully on her now as it churrs, rubbing its face into her leg.

She can feel the ease settling into the dragons without looking up, the extra eyes on her as the rest of the babies peek out from under the thunderdrum’s wing. Another bumbling little gronckle comes skittering out, wanting pats and attention too and then a baby monstrous nightmare with a damaged wing and four very tiny thunderdrums. They clamber over her, knocking her over and pressing too close to the arrow wound but she grits her teeth and gives each one equal attention. The final piece of tension breaks, dragons chattering but at normal levels and the grizzly old thunderdrum steps over, carefully. 

“I just want to cut the muzzle off,” Astrid says, under the weight of seven baby dragons, “I have a knife, but to cut the muzzle. I know you can’t understand me, but  _ please  _ trust me.” 

“Done.” Tuff calls out again and Astrid grits her teeth. The thunderdrum sniffs at her, but it’s not easy and she reaches out to touch the edge of the muzzle, gentle. 

“Okay little ones, time to move.” Astrid says and she slowly pulls the knife out of her waist band, showing it to all the dragons. The little monstrous nightmare rears back, afraid and the adult gronckle bristles but Astrid holds steady, whispering nonsense softly to calm them. Once they’re settled, she opens the knife up, slipping the blade out of the sheath. The monstrous nightmare backs away, but the little thunderdrums are curious, sniffling and jockeying up next to one another. Astrid protects them from the edge, turning it away and letting them explore. 

Seven painstaking minutes later, with several more cages opened by Astrid finally touches the muzzle, bringing the knife up and under the rope. She works quickly, sawing away. The knife is definitely damaged from sawing at the dragonroot arrow so it jerks around unseemingly and the thunderdrum gets more anxious but soon enough the rope snaps and Astrid helps to pull the muzzle down and off the thunderdrum’s face. Triumphant, the thunderdrum gnashes his teeth, snapping in Astrid’s direction and she stays still, hoping, worried - she’s got dragonroot in her shoulder, what if it’s making them anxious?  _ What if she’s causing them stress?  _

The thunderdrum roars, not loud enough to damage any hearing, but enough that all the dragons turn to look at them. The gronckles are immune but what of thunderdrums? And definitely not monstrous nightmares, but - 

“I have dragonroot in my shoulder,” Astrid says, mostly to herself, she can see the pile of cloth taped to her shoulder but that’s all. Does the blood mask it? Does the cloth? It doesn’t matter, she goes to the next cage. 

“I think I hear footsteps.” Tuff calls out, clicking open another cage and yeah, there’s noise above them, echoing around. It spurs Astrid into action, stepping forward to the next muzzled dragon, a snow wraith with a scar across its face. 

Freeing the grizzly old thunderdrum, and perhaps being so kind to the babies, means the snow wraith pushes into her hands, tilting its head up and Astrid slips the knife under the ropes and saws through it easier now. Once free she heads to the next cage, but the dragons are ready for her, crowding the space and Astrid gets to work, stroking noses and holding heads and carefully cutting rope and leather to free dragon after dragon after dragon from their muzzles. She’s finally caught up to Tuff, waiting for him to finish the next lock, dragons milling around them, knocking over crates for food and chirruping at other dragons still in cages, when the door handle to the hold  _ rattles _ . 

“Oh fuck,” she says. It rattles again, louder against the quiet of everyone in the room and the next cage lock unclicks. “Tuff,  _ please _ get a move on.” 

“There’s only three more.” He says, urgent, determined. Astrid taps on the shoulder, hurrying him up and steps into the cage, reaching for the muzzle on the closest head of a snaptrapper. It comes off easy, and the three other heads crowd in, eager to be next. Tuff struggles with the next lock, hands shaking but focusing on. 

“Okay, dragons,” she calls out, hoping it’ll make sense, that without training they’ll understand something. There’s shouting outside the hold door, and the handle is shaking “We need to  _ leave _ . Any dragons with any useful firepower, we need you to blow a hole in the ship, but don’t leave let.” She makes hand movements, like that’ll make more sense, and the babies following her fingers like she’s holding a tasty treat. 

“Done!” Tuff calls, scampering to the next cage and Astrid meets the dragon halfway, easily slipping her knife between it and tearing the muzzle off. 

She ushers the dragons down the far end of the hold, gesturing further. An excitable young Nadder seems to get what she’s saying and turns to the side of the ship and spits out a magnesium hot blast. The wood sizzles and crackles, catching fire easily, and although the initial shot was small the only edges burn away, red hot. The monstrous nightmare from the second cage joins in, blasting alongside. More dragons join in, quickly opening a large hole in the side of the ship. She throws a hand up, wanting the dragons to keep enough firepower to defend themselves. 

“Gronckles,” Astrid says, running a hand over the closest ones, “I know you don’t understand me but I need you to all do a lava blast at once, into the ocean, and when the steam rises I want everyone to fly out in the confusion.” 

“Done!” Tuff calls, ushering a couple of snafflefangs towards Astrid. There’s one cage left and Tuff really has cut his hands now, and Astrid feels like if she stops she’ll collapse. She snaps the muzzles off easy, tucking the folded knife into Tuff’s boot. He looks up, and down again quickly, he doesn’t voice any concerns. 

Astrid bundles the little monstrous nightmare up, careful with its wing and sets it atop of the thunderdrum, tucked in close. It grips loosely and Astrid pats the both of them, turning to the gronckles grouped up by the edge of the whole. She can hear shouting and swearing, there’s definitely dragon hunters ready to fire and she holds her hand up. 

Tuff’s still struggling with the last lock, mumbling and groaning to himself and the dragon hunters at the hold door have gotten a battering ram. The thuds are shuddering the door, hinges whining. They don’t have enough time. 

“Okay, go!” Astrid shouts, pushing the closest gronckle. They all lurch forward, spewing lava out onto the ocean surface, steam immediately rising, covering the air space in front of them and the dragons start shooting out of the hold. Astrid spins on her heel, dodging a prickleboggle, picking up a piece of broken crate and situates herself far enough away from the door to not get hurt, brandishing her makeshift weapon. 

“Done.” Tuff screams, flinging the door open, he pulls the knife out just as the door bursts open in a shower of splinters, cutting the muzzle off a typhoomerang.

Instead of grabbing a ride he bolts towards Astrid, knife at the ready as Astrid swings the piece of wood as hard as possible at the first dragon rider. She screams, loud and angry and completely nonsensical, her shoulder a little better than numb and unbelievably frustrated Tuff didn’t take the opening she presented. That he’s going to die here too, with only his senseless bravery and Astrid. A moment later the typhoomerang gives a small warning blast towards the dragon hunters, sizzling the hairs right off Astrid’s right arm, and then scoops the both of them up, biting hard onto the back of first Tuff’s shirt and once he’s got a hold of her neck, Astrid. 

There’s no steam left rising in the air, but there’s a mismatched flock of angry dragons and the typhoomerang soars out of the hold easily. Tuff reaches down and grabs at Astrid’s arms, helping to pull her up and over the typhoomerang’s neck. Carefully, they slide down the neck until they’re perched safely at the base, resting on its back. 

“I dropped your knife.” Tuff says and Astrid laughs. She takes his dirty, messy face in her hands and laughs until she’s crying. 

“It’s fine, it’s  _ fine, _ ” she hiccups, she presses their foreheads together. “Who cares about a stupid knife anyway.” 

“I mean, you do.” Tuff shrugs, or tries too, but it’s really awkward and when Astrid smiles at him, he makes an aborted little sob, curling his arms around her and hugging her fiercely. Astrid hugs him back, but with her shoulder she only manages one of medium strength. Once they get the arrow out she’s going to have to rest it for months just for the strain of today. 

“What you did,” Astrid starts and she can feel Tuff stiffen in her arms, “was stupid and reckless and absolutely  _ idiotic.  _ But, I am glad you did it. I don’t know how I could have done any of that alone.” 

“You would have done it for me.” Tuff tilts his head up and Astrid kisses his forehead, even if it’s dirty, even though the sweat just dried off. How simple, how honest, how ridiculous. She squeezes him for a moment. 

“Go to sleep.” she says. The adrenaline is already starting to wear off and she feels shaky and exhausted. “We’re safe for now, I’ll keep first watch.” 

“Matchstick will keep us safe,” Tuff replies, not hiding a yawn he was definitely trying to hide a minute ago, “we’re both safe.” 

“Matchstick?” Astrid asks, but does as she’s told anyway, settling further into the space. Tuff picks a few splintered pieces of wood off of her. 

“Yeah,” Tuff pats at the typhoomerang they’re perched upon. “I decided to name her Matchstick. It’s a good name for a typhoomerang.” 

“It’s a very good name Tuff.” Astrid catches Tuff’s yawn. Tuff catches it back. 

Now she’s been told to sleep, Astrid can feel the weight of her eyelids and the pain in her shoulders and hands and  _ joints _ . Her cutting wrist aches, her ribs are probably bruised. She sends a quick prayer to Odin, thanking him for there being no more injuries, and nothing more then a few cuts on Tuff’s hands. 

“Do you think they’re flying towards The Edge?” Tuff asks, voice soft but urgent, “would they all even know where The Edge is? Are we going to live with these dragons now? That would be cool, but Ruffnut might be scared that I’m missing. We’ll have to go back and get her and Barf and Belch and Stormfly and they can live with us and these dragons. I hope there’s squash fruit because that’s my favourite - and those pink berries, because they’re  _ your  _ favourite.” 

“We’ll find out when we’re rested.” Astrid says, dropping a kiss to the crown of Tuff’s head, stroking her fingers over the curve of his shoulder. “When we get back to The Edge, you’re going to teach me how to lock pick.”

“Oh yes.” Tuff murmurs, his tirade really tiring himself out. He presses his face into Astrid’s good shoulder. Astrid stares up at the clouds, sun casting a deep rosy pink hue over them. “I lost my lock picks too, though. We’ll have to make some new ones.”

“It’s a date.” Astrid agrees. 


End file.
